


never let me go

by creepbat



Category: Actor RPF, Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Clones, Crossover, Dystopia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Never Let Me Go - Freeform, Organ Transplantation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepbat/pseuds/creepbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a theory some of the students held that clones were made from the ‘trash’ of the world: junkies, addicts, prostitutes and even convicts, as long as they hadn’t been insane. It cemented the idea that they were only things created to be expendable. But Chris remembered thinking, as he traced the strong line of Tom’s jaw with his thumb and looked into the pools of his expressive blue-gray eyes, that no matter how likely that theory may be, he would never be able to accept it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never let me go

**Author's Note:**

> ~such an original title~  
> AU of Kazuo Ishiguro's book. wrote this like a year ago; it's of very questionable quality. if you value your happiness turn back now.

Chris didn’t like painting.

He first learned this when he was five or six, in Miss Geraldine’s class. In his head, he had the image he wanted- what colors he was going to use, how it was supposed to look- but he couldn’t make it translate to the large, taunting blank sheet of paper in front of him and everything always ended up as clumsy and pitiful stick-figures. So despite the gentle encouragement from Miss Geraldine, by the time the bell had rung he had stopped even trying. He could hear the stage whispers from his young peers, that he wasn’t creative and there must be something  _wrong_  with him. At the Hailsham school, art was  _important_  and if you couldn’t do it decently then your work would never make it into the Gallery and- if what the guardians had told them was true- if art was supposed to reflect you, who you were  _inside_ , then well, what if Chris wasn’t  _anything_? He sat outside by himself after that class, shredding leaves with his hands and trying to ignore the stinging behind his eyes.

"Hi."

It was a smiley, polite and soft-spoken boy with curly hair that was blowing slightly in the breeze. He gave Chris a questioning look as to why he was alone.

"My paintings are bad," Chris muttered as he picked apart another leaf and he could hardly bring himself to say it.  _He_  was bad. _  
_

"I like them," the other boy said kindly, and Chris didn’t doubt for a moment that he was being honest, his voice was so sincere. That afternoon they played with each other as though they’d been friends forever, as children often do- thinking up imaginary games; pretending that they were soldiers, pirates, anything they could think of.

\--

He and Tom H. remained very close, and while both of the two boys became well-liked and had plenty of other playmates, always ate together at meals, beds closest to each other. One morning a few years later, Tom only picked half-heartedly at his breakfast, but Chris wasn’t concerned until they all went outside to play rounders. He noted how slowly his friend was moving, and it wasn’t long before Tom removed himself from the game altogether. His face was drained of color and he was taking shallow breaths, holding his middle with his eyes tightly squeezed shut. Chris grimaced when he threw up on the grass, resulting in a high-pitched chorus of " _Ew!_ " that rang out through the small crowd that had assembled around them. As a nearby guardian gently took ahold of the sick boy’s shoulders and began to steer him towards the direction of the building, Tom’s eyes found his, pleading silently, and Chris knew that he wanted him to come too. He looked scared and like he was trying not to cry in spite of the pain. Then it was much later and Tom hadn’t come back yet and Chris was still upset and one of the guardians, he couldn’t remember which, had attempted to reassure him.

"It’s alright, the doctors are only going to take out his appendix-"

"But what if he  _needs_  it!" Chris protested, worried, feeling a fierce sense of protectiveness over the other boy.

She explained to him that there were some parts of the body that you could live without. That if it was left in then it would get angry and leave nasty stuff on his insides, which could hurt his kidneys and other vital organs. It was important to keep your organs undamaged and healthy, especially for  _them_ \- and Chris had been confused at this. It wasn’t until years later that information was gradually given to the students, bit by bit; that children like them had a special purpose.

You could buy art pieces from other students and get trade tokens which could be used at the sales. Tom did mostly paintings, telling Chris that a few times he had attempted poetry but ended up feeling like a tit. Just out of their preteen years, one of the sales Tom found an ancient, moth-eaten book; a complete collection of Shakespearean plays. It used up almost all of Tom’s tokens. Chris noticed that whenever Tom had time he retreat back to the boys’ dorms, or just lay out in the grass if it was nice out, and bury his nose in the musty thing, murmuring in concentration to himself.

Soon he started organizing amateur productions of  _Othello_  and  _The Twelfth Night_. There was teasing at first, mostly from boys who were quick to target anyone who might dare try something that could easily backfire, or anything that could possibly be interpreted as queer. This attitude crumbled in the face of Tom’s strong resolution, and it wasn’t long before everyone started asking if they could be in them as well. Tom wanted to become a proper actor when he grew up; to visit America and be in films. To Chris, this wasn’t far-fetched at all- the dedication and intensity with which Tom delivered his lines always sending chills down his spine. Chris also liked being able to be another person for awhile. Finally, something other than football that he was actually  _good_ at. One of the younger guardians, Miss Lucy, watched a performance of theirs with an unreadable expression.

Later, Chris spotted by chance how she pulled Tom aside and told him to come with her in room 103 to have a private word. Curious, he followed them, only making it to the partially closed door for the very end of the conversation.

"Do you understand, Tom?" The guardian’s tone was firm and blunt. There was a momentary silence.

"Yes, miss," Chris heard him say, so softly that he almost hadn’t heard it. He hid behind a nearby corner as soon as the other boy walked out, concerned at the oddly blank and empty expression he had never seen on his friend’s face before.

The plays suddenly stopped. For weeks afterward he doggedly pressed Tom about what Miss Lucy had said to him in that room. The other boy’s mouth would tighten reluctantly, as if he was considering telling him, but in the end he always managed to change the subject. Out of curiosity, Chris checked underneath Tom’s bed, finding the tattered book of Shakespeare with its dog-eared pages still tucked carefully away.

It was also at this age that Miss Emily, the strictest guardian, started their sex-education. Using a plastic skeleton, she pragmatically showed them what went where, what positions you could do. She told them that even though none of them could ever make babies, sex was only to be had with someone you were absolutely  _sure_  you loved. The year they were all fifteen going on sixteen, he saw Tom with girls, flirting easily with them and even disappearing with one every now and then. They all liked him. He was charming and funny and sensitive and sometimes Chris felt himself growing irritated with Tom. If he had forced himself to think rationally, he would have realized the astounding level of his own hypocrisy- it wasn’t like  _he_  had never been with girls. But then the other boy would come over and start talking to him animatedly, enthusiastic about something or other and the animosity would vanish, just as swiftly as it’d come. It was the way he carried himself, exuding a humble confidence but also a distinct vulnerability. How even when Tom was at his most optimistic or delighted, his eyes still always carried a hint of sadness in them, and this made it impossible for Chris to stay mad with him.

\--

After moving on from Hailsham at eighteen, students got moved to the cottages to live with some of the older graduates for a number of years, until it was their time to be ‘carers’; clones who took care of donors before and after every operation until they reached ‘completion,’ which was to say that their bodies finally failed and they died- having completed their only purpose in life.

Chris was getting that feeling again- the feeling that he  _had_  to have sex, and sometimes it didn’t even matter  _who_ he did it with as long as he got off. He wondered if Tom ever felt like that. The day it happened, it was a chilly late autumn afternoon and the sky was an overcast gray and it was drizzling. Tom was wearing a thick jumper, jeans and his Wellies, and had started ribbing him about something. Chris had never been the type of person to take teasing personally, but for some reason he especially didn’t mind it when it was Tom. The two of them had ended up in the barn shed rarely anyone ever went into. It had happened so fast that now Chris could only recall brief, fleeting moments: Tom hooking his thumbs into the waist of his trousers to push them down, the swallow visible in the other boy’s throat, curly blond-brown hair damp against his face- how it smelled like rain and woodsmoke.

This went on into the winter months and they often cooped themselves up in the small attic with steaming mugs cupped in their hands. They took advantage of these sparse times alone- they kissed a lot, or sometimes they just touched each other in the most innocent, affectionate ways. Chris would lay his palm flat on Tom’s chest to feel his heartbeat, Tom would brush back a stray piece of blond hair that had fallen into his eyes. The rumor was that if two clones somehow  _proved_  that they were really in love, then their donations would be effectively pushed back three years. They were brimming with nervous excitement, but tried to approach the idea from a calm and removed standpoint. One of the older students in the cottage, William S., knew a couple that was supposed to start donating soon, but were planning on testing the rumor. Chris knew not to bring up the topic in discussion, but it was all he could think about, his stomach flipping excitedly at the prospect of three extra years with Tom.

William soon got wind of the couple’s meeting with the guardians at Hailsham- that it had not gone well at all and he didn’t want to go into detail: “Forget you ever heard about it." Chris felt like something had been crushed inside him. It only worsened when he saw the heartbreaking look of despondency that fell on Tom’s face before he quickly tried to mask it. Chris reminded himself that they were two males, that it would have been impossible even if deferrals had existed in the first place.

\--

There was a theory some of the students held that clones were made from the ‘trash’ of the world: junkies, addicts, prostitutes and even convicts, as long as they hadn’t been insane. It cemented the idea that they were only things created to be expendable. But Chris remembered thinking, as he traced the strong line of Tom’s jaw with his thumb and looked into the pools of his expressive blue-gray eyes, that no matter how likely that theory may be, he would never be able to accept it.

\--

Eventually they both moved into a modest but cozy apartment. Their lives were normal for awhile; buying groceries, giving a peck on the other’s cheek each morning, and most nights staying up exceedingly late to study the responsibilities of being a carer. It was Tom who helped Chris the most, by giving him little tips and pieces of advice on how to memorize everything. See, the better a carer you were, the better chance you had of being one for longer. But it did not always work out that way. There were amazing ones that sometimes had bad luck and were made to begin donating earlier, and vice versa. Tom turned out to be a natural carer. He was endlessly compassionate, genuinely caring for every donor he worked with and spending more time with them than he was obligated to. Each completion affected him immensely and Chris would go out of his way to cheer him up, not being able to stand seeing him wear that dull and beaten expression- the same one he had first witnessed on the day of Tom’s talk with Miss Lucy all those years ago.

After one particularly long day at the hospital, Chris trudged in through their front door but as soon as he set his keys down on the table, his instincts sensed immediately that something was wrong. He called out Tom’s name and when he received no response, he went into their bedroom, freezing in the doorway when he saw the other man perched motionlessly on the edge of the bed. A letter was clutched tightly in Tom’s hand, his lips compressed in a thin line, his watery eyes burning into his.

Chris immediately began the process of fighting to be Tom’s carer, knowing that there was no possibility that he would ever take no for an answer. Seeing him after the first operation, he couldn’t swallow- like there was something monstrous stuck in his throat. They had cut off a lot of his hair, so that there were no more curls. Dark, exhausted circles lay underneath his eyes as Tom forced a weak smile for his benefit. But there was still some reddish-blond stubble on his face that scratched Chris whenever they were together. Once Tom gradually became stronger, they started having sex again quite often, but they always had to be mindful of Tom’s stitches, or if he got tired and they had to stop and let him rest for a while until he felt better.

Not surprisingly, Tom’s body hadn’t responded well at all to the third operation and there had been complications. The hospital pressed on regardless; did the standard blood tests and just put him on a new medication. Whenever Tom got dizzy Chris would hold him gently at the elbow to steady him and often times the other man would apologize, embarrassed, and the only thing Chris could do was to shake his head and give him a firm squeeze of reassurance, as if to say: 

 _Don’t be sorry for anything_.

\--

Rather impulsively one evening, Chris decided that they both needed fresh air. He couldn’t stand the artificial smell of the hospital, the antiseptic and cleaning solution. They drove down a random series of narrow roads as the orange sun started to set, having no particularly place they were heading to. Tom asked him to pull over. Stopping on the shoulder of the road, Chris stayed in the car as the other man got out, to give him some privacy. He stared ahead through the windshield, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel at the sound of vomiting.

He could keep on driving, Chris thought. He pictured them driving miles away, not stopping until they were sure reality could never catch them. They could start a new life while Tom healed, slowly, but healing all the same. Somewhere where sunlight was always warm on their faces, near open water so they could watch the blue waves churning and washing up against the shore while they read Shakespeare aloud. Their bodies would belong to only themselves and each other and no one else. Tom would be tanned and smiling, the sadness finally gone from his eyes.

That is what Chris would have liked to have happened.


End file.
